Inklings
by JaguarCello
Summary: Hal is finding it increasingly difficult to focus on his new family, as he is distracted by someone new - Cutler. Can he control himself enough to remember the path he has chosen?
1. Overview

It's times like this, in the deep darkness of my room, that I feel my age. The night stretches, becomes elastic, as I lie awake. Sleep used to come easy to me before Pearl and Leo, when I embraced the bloodlust and the terror, so tangible. I'd think nothing of draining some pretty girl most nights; they'd be glad to come home with a soldier, a writer, a sailor – whichever disguise I was wearing then.

The solider was always popular, and the red jackets hid the blood well - although I also had to wash them. They were pathetic, desperate – usually broke, or runaways, or stowaways. I despised them even as I sunk my teeth into their throats, and that made it emptier. Their lives didn't mean much to me; they were only girls, and human girls at that.

But it was hard to hide the monster in me; I was known even amongst my own kind as being savage, and the fear I could smell on the girls I hunted seeped through to the others. They trusted me and looked up to me, but they were terrified. Skulking in the shadows, they crawled at my feet, sycophantic, servile and stupid. I wanted to step into the light, to be the lord they called me, to rule over the idiots who I fed on.

So I did.

It only lasted for a few hundred years, and time flies when you're having fun (Annie's phrase; her cheeriness and inane optimism have sadly sneaked into my thoughts). That time is a blur of blood and bodies and pleasure and heat.

Faces leap out at me (although I suppose it was I who was doing any leaping) when I concentrate, but it doesn't become a real life until 1955 – even then, Leo and Pearl never felt like my family. We were close, but that had more to do with my respect for Leo than much love for Pearl. They were a couple, but a couple that had not yet realised it.

Love always used to be an abstract. It still is, of course, but being in the presence of it – Annie's fierce love for Eve and her grudging love for Tom, and my love for routine (which I now recognise as necessary for life, whatever Tom tries to say) – makes me more aware of people. The girls I killed had mothers, had boyfriends, husbands, children, and that love was lost forever, ripped out from them by someone who didn't know their names.

The love here, in this house, is as tangible as the old fear. I can almost smell it.

We're becoming a family now, and I like it.


	2. Initials

One of my dominoes was missing, the one with six on each side, and my favourite. It's the one I always finish with, the one I think of as the marker point. I need it, to be in control. Without this one domino, my routine is ruined, and my mind can wander. I looked all over my room. It wasn't under the carpet, it wasn't in my bed (despite what Annie said, dominoes are not like underwear). I couldn't see it in the kitchen either, or in the living room. This worried me.

This worried me a lot.

I looked everywhere. I upturned each table in every room, and pulled up the floorboards of the nursery. I peeled back the carpets and dragged out the wardrobes, chests of drawers, cupboards – but it was nowhere to be found. The flat now resembled Tom's warzone. I even braved the area under his bed, and found some fluff of indeterminable origin, a bone (the dog really is living up to his reputation) and a stake.

"Tom?" I called to him. The droning on the television cut off, and suddenly he was in the room, sniffing.

"Hal! What're you doing with my stuff? C'mon, get out." He glared at me, bleary-eyed, from underneath his eyebrows.

"I'm looking for my domino." I heard the slight wobble in my voice as my façade cracked, and cursed silently. "Tom. Just tell me."

He sighed, eyebrows swooping together like crows. "I've not got it. Jesus, calm down. D'you want me to help you look?"

I folded my lips together to keep from begging. "If you don't mind, that would be lovely, thank you."

The baby started to cry, a thin wail that pierced the walls and sharpened the colours in the house. She's started to burble even more now, and Annie is convinced that every day she is speaking Cantonese or Russian. But this was just the normal crying that any baby makes.

The mood in the house changed, a near-imperceptible shift. We're tied to that baby, all of us, and so we ran (well, he shambled) next door to her room. She's got one of the best rooms in the house, even if it is decorated with Christian instruments of torture.

I hadn't checked her bed for the domino.

Annie hasn't appeared yet, so I scooped her up and handed her to Tom. He's more used to her, and also she's messy. I raked the blankets aside, turned over the pillow, and her crying stopped.

Tom and I look at her, shocked. Her face, which had been red from her wails, was turning blue. Her tiny fingers, clutching at thin air, were stilling, and she was silent. Her breathing had stopped; she was choking, and neither of us had any idea what to do.

Annie snatched her from Tom's outstretched arms, and in the same movement, turned her over and slapped her on the back. Once, twice, thrice – and Eve was crying again, gasping and spluttering. Annie cradled her in her arms, whispering to her, and then she kicked my domino towards me, now covered with Eve slobber.

"Boys." Her voice was quiet, menacing. "What do you think you're doing? She is the most important baby on the planet, if you believe that, and you nearly let her choke on one of your ruddy dominoes? Hal, I expected better organisation from you! Tom, I know you're young, but you need to grow up!"

Tom frowned under her onslaught, but I growled. "You're supposed to be her guardian! Jesus Christ, Annie! My routine has been compromised, I can't handle this, and you know about my routine-"

"Oh, you and your routine! Eve has a routine too you know, and hers is a lot more important than your obsession with time-wasting and jiggery-pokery! Get to work!" She was shouting now, eyes blazing. I thought my angry eyes were scary, but they're nothing compared to hers. She was furious. "Go to work. Tom, go with him."

Tom mumbled something about "Under my bed", and Annie threw a cold mug of tea, which had been sitting on the dresser, over his head. "Thomas, go now. Go now or face my wrath." He marched downstairs, and we heard the door slam behind him.

"You too, Hal. I am holding you responsible for this! She could have died! She could have died choking on your wretched sad little hobby! She could ha-". I cut her off.

"Fine." Stiffly, I straightened the covers and recovered the domino (using the corner of the blanket to wipe it, of course), and walked out of the room. I continued walking out the house, pausing only to place the stake I'd taken from Tom's room onto the table. Annie should know about this.

The door of the chippy (I personally dislike the term, but it seems to be in common parlance) swung shut as I walked in – or it would have done, had someone not been leaving, a man, who looked at me with a mixture of fear and recognition. I ignored this and went round the back of the counter. Tom was in the kitchen, chopping lettuce as if he wanted to hack out its soul.

"I'm not going out front mate. She can stuff her ruddy job; I ain't doing anything to help her. She was well out of order," he said, looking at me. "All we did was- "

"Nearly get Eve killed? Well, I can see why that would irritate her," I retorted. "I'll go out the front. I'm sure I won't accidentally kill anyone." I pulled my apron off the shelf and forced it over my head, and went out to face humanity, armed with only a few burger buns.


	3. Subito

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself"

Tom stayed, mutinously, in the kitchen all morning. He made the food – with the finesse of a mouse wearing boxing gloves – and called me – "Oi!" whenever the food needed carrying through. Judging by the slashes on the burger buns, he'd taken his anger out on them as well; I had three complaints about ketchup leaking onto clothing. He was having a tantrum. Jesus, to be young.

It was harder today being in the midst of humanity, than it had been before. Tom had always been there, ever-ready to politely bamboozle any whining customer with his strange, circular logic. Or, he'd been ready to stop me leaping across the counter and ripping their throats, and tearing into the skin under their collarbones, and slicing into their chests –

However, the more I saw of the people in the chippy, the more they disgusted me. Eating with t heir fingers, eating with their mouths open – I had seen better dining habits at the time of enclosure, when mothers had been forced to give fox-meat to their children. The desperation of those children, licking at every bone and sucking every drop of marrow from the carcass, was nothing to the desire of these idiots to imbue their bodies with saturated fats.

Also, they left their napkins on the floor for me to pick up. One left another disgusting magazine. "Tom?" I reckoned he'd – well, not want to see this, but want to disapprove with me. "Come and look at this." He ignored this, and the frenzied sound of tomatoes being stabbed grew louder.

Evolution clearly hadn't been working all that well, as most of those who required _serving_ were complete halfwits with terrible eating habits (one boy managed to get mayonnaise on the ceiling, whilst eating a burger with no mayonnaise in it. I don't want to think too much about that). The levels of personal hygiene were appalling; some men had walked straight off a building site and ate their chips with their hands. I could see the grit under their nails and the dust on their faces.

The look of disgust must have been clear on my face.

"Oi, you. Yeah, you, the one who's been looking at me funny." His voice, harsh and flat, rang out across the room – a local accent, but contaminated with the rough tones of a Londoner. I turned to look at where the voice was coming from, and saw a stocky man, once muscular but running to fat. His stubby fingers were curled into fists as he glared at me, his eyes buried behind his black eyebrows.

"Are you talking to me?" I answered politely, wanting to avoid anything. If I got into any kind of confrontation, it could lead to bloodshed. The idea of draining this man repulsed and thrilled me, and I didn't want to be that person any more. Bloodlust flared like a lit match; I thought about my teeth ripping out his throat, of blood dripping down my chin and neck, and of the rich, salty taste I so desired flowing through me once more. How it would raise me from this low-life existence of serving overpriced chips, and how it would make me who I was created to be, Lord Harry, ruling over those who I fed on and treating them as disposables, to be flayed when it suited me, so that their blood dripped over the flagstones -

I swallowed, and forced the bloodlust down.

"Matter of fact, I am. You think you're so high and mighty, don't you? Look at you, lording it-"

I snapped.

Grabbing him by the lapels of his overall, I pulled him outside, and forced him up against the wall next to the rubbish bins. He slipped, and knocked over a stack of polystyrene boxes, but that did not matter now. I was in control. I didn't need any stupid rituals! I could finally embrace myself, me, in a way that I had not done for fifty years. Vampires should not attempt to live with these pathetic people who walk this earth, and they should not attempt to cringe away from their true nature!

"Call to your god," I spat, ruled by the bloodlust. "Call to him, as they always do!" My vision darkened as my fangs were unleashed, and everything solidified. I did not hear his blubbering, but only the beautiful rhythm of his heart, racing as he panicked. The artery in his neck pulsed with his fear, and I bent my head to his neck, and prepared to bite into the lush skin –

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms enveloped me, and a knee came up to kick me swiftly. I fell, but Tom caught me, keeping his arms wrapped securely around my chest. I tried to shake him off as the builder whimpered like a puppy, and ran out of the alleyway. He ran away, and I could still hear his blood pounding in his veins; I struggled, but to no avail. He'd got away.

"Hal. C'mon, let's go home. I've shut up the chippy now, and Annie'll be wanting us to take Eve out for Mandarin lessons or something. She's probably calmed down now, and I bet she was worrying about us. I missed my lunch because of her mood. Did you get any?" Tom burbled on like the fool he is, not noticing my lack of response.

"You're lucky. Yours is only a part-time problem, and I envy you. Trying to stop yourself from destroying an empty room? Easy. But when morons like that provoke me, I can't help myself." I pat the words, anger coursing through me like fire, but exhaled slowly.

Tom let go of me, but hovered close behind, ready to head home. I snarled at him, but turned and walked away. I'd had enough of fighting for one day.


	4. Foray

**A/N: Thank you to those who have favourited this! It means a lot. Keep reviewing; the more reviews I get, the more motivated I am to write!**

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><p>Annie had calmed down by the time we returned to the house. Home, I should say. It was dark, and as we told Annie the story (Tom was doing most of the talking, and I was sitting trying to organise my thoughts), she brooded. She didn't say much, apart from to mutter expletives under her breath, mainly about my so-called OCD. "Why did you have to look at them? Loads of people don't wash their hands before eating! Honestly, how you live in the world, I do not know. Seriously, before soap had been invented, how did you function?" I ignored her. Sanitation has always been important to me.<p>

She didn't say much, that is, until Tom mentioned the "bloke" we'd seen leaving the chippy. Well, I'd seen him, and Tom had smelt him, although he'd barely registered to me. Annie, however, expected us to provide a full description. It literally would not surprise me if she decided to make some sort of e-fit, like the police did. She was in that kind of mood.

"Do you know him?" She was calm, or pretending to be calm. Her façade was in place, and she could ask a question (one that obviously caused her a great deal of worry), without her voice cracking. Then, her mask slipped. "Because, he might have been a vampire. He'd know about Hal, because all the vampires seem to know about Lord Harry – and he'll know about Tom! If he isn't a vampire, why would he leave as soon as you two went in? Sure, he might have been an ordinary human, but you said he recognised you!" She paused for breath. "Are you sure it wasn't one of the Old Ones?"

I laughed, but it was a mirthless sound. "I didn't know him, Annie. He probably means nothing. Had he been an Old One, he'd have challenged me, or I'd have challenged him. Trust me."

Tom chose to pipe up. "We think – " he glanced at me swiftly and amended his statement – "I think that you were a bit harsh. Making us go to work. I missed my Cheerios, and my lunch! So did Hal!"

Throwing him an exasperated glance, Annie said "Hal's liquid lunch got away. And we don't know anything about him, where he lives, where he works, who he's told? You could have exposed all of us! Well, not me. But yourself and Tom! You got all high-and-mighty when Adam led all those reporters to our door – you might have done the same! What if he goes to the police?"

"The chances are that they'll eat him, going on previous experience," I commented wryly. "Honestly, forget it".

So we did, until the next day, when the stranger from the chippy came knocking at our door.

He arrived just as Tom was pouring milk all over the table, and Annie was talking to Eve about photosynthesis. I was doing the washing up – Annie's idea, a new rota that fits the need for cleanliness as well as the mammoth number of plates that Tom seems to demand. That boy eats enough to feed a battalion, and I know exactly how much a battalion can eat, when on the run from Royalist forces, or the Roundheads. In the end, all humanity wants the same thing – to be safe, and full, and greedy. That doesn't change, I've noticed.

The bell rang, and I went to answer it. He was standing on the doorstep, almost too closely to be polite. He'd dressed in a hurry; the buttons on his shirt were done up in the wrong order, and his navy tie was crooked.

"I'm looking for a Tom McNair, and a Hal? No last name known." He spoke precisely, green-grey eyes fixed on me. "Working in the chippy yesterday, when one Alun Ponti was attacked? We can't ask him because, well, he's gone." I recognised him then. This was the man who Tom and I had observed leaving the chippy – and that phrase _does _seem to be in common parlance. Damn it, the dog was right. Again.

I turned to go inside, tilting my head to him. He stayed where he was, just staring at me through his eyes, and bit his lip gently before speaking. "I can't – "he began, before I stepped outside, pulling him round the corner with me.

He was a vampire.

I pushed him up against the wall, nose to nose. We were almost exactly the same height; his eyes looked directly into mine. He didn't struggle against my hands fisted in his jacket, just said "Hal." It was said almost as a sign of resignation, recognition, reconciliation – and I had no idea who he was. "You are Hal, I presume? The accounts differ, but you seem to fit the bill. Nice clothes, nice manners, when you're not manhandling people? You look quite clean." He stood up straighter, drawing himself upright, and sniffed once.

"No moustache I note. So, you and Fergus go way back. What's happened to him?" His voice wasn't angry, just curious.

"I killed him", I stated flatly.

"How… unfortunate. I see your reputation for viciousness wasn't unfounded. Should I be quaking in my boots? I hear you have a weakness though - oh, there's something on your shirt. Not washed properly? It looks like milk to me. That'll stain." His voice had a slight undercurrent of menace to it, but his faintly mocking smile made me want to check. Dirt, on my clothes?

I looked down at my shirt, relaxing my grip on his jacket. A small patch of milk, probably from Eve's morning bottle, had stained the cotton stretched over my shoulder. Okay. Okay, I could deal with this. I attempted to wipe it with my other hand, and as I did so, the stranger pulled himself from my grip.

He turned to walk away, but as he did so, stumbled on my feet. Pressing his hands against my chest for balance, he straightened and left, walking casually down the front path as if it was the sort of thing he did every day. I watched him leave.

Annie came outside then, with Eve "swaddled" in her jumper. "Who was that? Was it connected with yesterday?" She looked at me then, and said "Hal, you're breathing too quickly. What's wrong? What did he say? Did he threaten you? Hal! Hal, you brought this mess upon us, you and your cleanliness!"

"He didn't threaten me, but as for whom he was…" I said, smoothing down my shirt. There was something sharp in the pocket; I pulled out a folded piece of card. It was a business card. Without speaking, I handed it to Annie.

"Cutler," she read. "Solicitor. Wow, he doesn't like to give much away, does he? This Cutler. What kind of business card has a Twitter account, but no office address? And it says "Text me", rather than "Call me". That's odd. This whole thing is odd, in fact."

"Annie, he's a vampire. Good or bad, or undecided, I can't tell. But I'm going to find out."


	5. Gentlemen

The lighting looked strange. Everything was blue, bleached of colour, as if a developing film had been left in the sun and then had ink spilled onto it. A man was standing across the room, which had the rich panelling and bay windows of a wealthy solicitor's office. The sun from the window lit him up, and I couldn't make out his features, but his clothes were dark, like mine.

Mine? I looked down and saw that I was wearing a suit, dark blue, and a tie. This was unexpected. At least the suit was clean, but it was of questionable vintage.

A noise from across the room startled me, though I hid it well. I looked up, and saw the man had come to stand next to me. We were almost exactly the same height; his eyes looked directly into mine.

"Hello," I said, inclining my head to him. He turned, and I could see his face. It hit me then, who he was, and why he was familiar. "Cutler," I breathed. "It's you." He reached sideways, putting one arm around my back, and pulled me into an embrace.

The hug felt familiar, warm, safe. None of the awkwardness I was now so accustomed to with other people – we _fitted_, perfectly. He buried his face in my shoulder, and whispered "We meet again. I missed you." He pulled back from my arms, and looked once more into my eyes. His face flickered with the ghost of a smile, and he leant forwards –

I woke up with a jolt, gasping for breath. Annie was sitting on the end of my bed.

"Hal? I came to see if you were alright. You were shouting, and groaning. I thought you might be having the succubus nightmares again – hang on, I'll get the lights". The lights flickered on, and she looked at me properly. "You're shaking. What was it? You look ill, but vampires don't get ill –"

"It was only a dream," I said, the words cutting into me like knives. Cutler! Of course I knew him, and he knew me! Why had I forgotten him? How could I have forgotten him?

The answer hit me then. The past that I had tried to submerge with layers of routine and organisation, washed over me. Cutler.

"It was a dream," I repeated firmly. "It was… the monks who trapped me in their dungeon. I was remembering the agony of the crucifix on the door, and the taste of –"

She cut me off then. "As long as you're alright, I'll be off. No more moaning, okay? You and Tom have a busy day tomorrow, so if you're going to disturb anyone's sleep, it can be your own. And, you don't want to –"

"Wake Eve, yes. Thank you, and goodnight." The lights went out, and she was gone.

I lay awake, thinking, until the narrow strip of sunlight from my window told me I could get up.

The night had moved into morning seamlessly, but I wanted nothing more than to be alone with my thoughts. I had to talk to him.

"Text me", the card said. Okay, I could do this. I rampaged across Europe, slaughtering and pillaging as I went, and was stopped by nobody. I devoured whole households, and took their daughters for my own. I chained them up in cellars to drain them slowly. So texting wouldn't be an issue for me.

I decided to ask Annie to help me out. Or, the way she carried on, you'd think that Eve would be better at texting than I would.

"Annie?" I called up the stairs. "Could you help me out please?" I idly flipped the card between my fingers, smoothing out the crinkles. The paper was smooth, expensive – but not ostentatious. "Annie!"

She appeared then, holding Eve in her arms. "You're meant to be teaching her the piano right now, Hal. I won't ask you again, but what do you want anyway? If it's in any way to do with the hand towel left on the floor, that was not me. I cannot remove my clothes in order to wash, let alone have a bath or a shower." She paused. "Good God, I haven't had a shower since 2007".

"Annie, I need your help to send a text. That vampire, the one who knew who I was? I've been thinking. I'm sure I know him from somewhere, but I don't know where from – I didn't recognise him at first, but then last night, I remembered-"I broke off (really, really don't want to explain the ways I knew Cutler) and started again. "He knows me, although he did a good job of hiding it the other day. I need to know how we're connected, and how it all links to Eve. And I can't work texts. I can do answering machines though."

She looked at me. "Tom told me about that. I think I really should handle this, or he'll think you're hopelessly obsessed with Jane Austen. Or just odd, or gay. I'm telling you now that I won't be using the words "apology", "goodness" or "gentleman", so you can ban them from your plan (I know you've planned this) right now."

"Tell him that Hal needs to see him. And tell him…" I thought about all the things I would want to say to him, and all the things I had ever said to him. "Tell him that I need to talk to him." Let him make his own inferences about that. He was a solicitor now, ludicrously.

Tom appeared, looking sad. His eyes gazed beseechingly at the bowl of cereal Annie had poured him, and then lit up once he saw it was Cheerios again. How he has a single tooth left in his head, I do not know. Bounding over to the table, he began attacking them with ferocious energy.

"Work today then," I said. He looked over at me, and swallowed hard.

"You never talk about work. You hate it! You told me it was like hell, and trust me, it wasn't that bad!"

Annie cut in. "You boys know nothing about hell. Been there, done that. It was pretty bad though; I met the people who Mitchell had killed and then had to talk about him, to them. And they hated him, but I had to explain that I loved him-" She paused, eyes filling up. Tom leapt up to hug her, spilling milk in the process. Eve started to cry.

The house sprang into action. Annie headed upstairs to greet Eve in Cantonese (at least that's what the high-pitched noises sounded like), Tom went to get a cloth – and I slipped out the front door, and headed out.


	6. Webbed

I stood outside the house, leaning against the gate, and took from my pocket the mobile phone which Annie had used to text Cutler. It was flashing and beeping, so I answered it, only to hear silence on the other end. Cutler's was the only number the phone had saved in it, so it must be him.

"Hello?" My voiced wavered slightly, rusty with the years and the things I wanted to say. "This is Hal. I texted you; well, Annie did, but she used my wording, so really I feel that it counts as me texting you-" I broke off, and looked at the phone. Soldiering on (for what else do soldiers do?), I went on "I apologise for the other day. I – I forgot. Jesus, I'm sorry." I began walking, aimlessly.

Phones really are a ridiculous invention. I preferred writing letters, where you could be discreet and sophisticated, although they did rely on a third party. In letter writing, you could be poetic, or humourous, or both. I used to write hundreds of letters to people, and each time they would assume it meant I desired them, and would come to their doom willingly. Other letters would be passionate – I have always had a fondness for the poetry of Keats, and helped him write a few of those famous letters.

We mostly used to drain the delivery boys dry, for they were young and their blood flowed easily. Some, though, we let live – we had to, otherwise who would carry our messages? Everyone knew their places and kept to them. Those who didn't would be cast out of society. Or we'd devour them. There's truly nothing like the feeling of sitting back in front of a fire, stained with the blood of your victims, drinking from crystal glasses.

A voice came through the phone, cutting through my thoughts. "Hal. My God." He spoke slowly, but I could hear the note of surprise and exaltation in his voice. He never had been good at hiding his emotions; he always wore his heart on his sleeve. As did I, once. "I need-"He exhaled, as if he'd been imagining this moment, and couldn't think of what to say. Perhaps he had.

"To see me? At least we have one thing in common once more. Can you come to the chippy?" It was reckless – Tom would be there to see him. The whole of bloody humanity in all its stupidity would be there. But I would be there, and he would. I stepped off the kerb without noticing, and my heart leapt.

"Yes. I'll be there… half an hour?" He paused, waiting for me to carry on speaking. I stayed silent, listening to his breathing, and suddenly it hitched. "Hal, are you still there? This is why I prefer texting! I got yours, by the way. It was set onto some sort of template; I got one that was signed "Love Allison, kiss kiss kiss." His voice was faintly mocking, but they sounded slightly bitter. "So, Allison? Who's she? Another one of your… acquisitions? But then, you don't do that anymore."

"She was a friend of Tom's, and she's gone now. The phone was hers, and I have no clue how we acquired it. Sorry about that, hope you didn't misunderstand –" That was a complete lie. I took her phone, and hoarded in my room. Deleted all the messages and numbers without reading them – although when I heard she'd run away, I felt a flicker of guilt. But I'd thought it would be helpful, and it was.

"Misunderstandings is all we ever were, don't you think?" He sounded wistful, and before I could draw breath, he'd cut me off.

That was another thing I hated about telephones; they were so obviously one-sided, and not to mention unfair.

I stayed where I was, standing in the road by the chippy, waiting for him. Time slowed, each minute feeling like a lifetime. I realised then that it had always been like that, but with him, time _meant _more. And suddenly, he was there.

The intervening years could have been seconds, demi-seconds; he was walking towards me with the old, focused look on his face. His hair was a little messier than it had been the other day, but now that I'd remembered who he was and why – dear God, _why_ – he'd been so important, I didn't mind. Forcing myself to remain still, I waited, tapping my fingers together.

And he was in front of me and I had no idea how, until now, I had forgotten him – I had buried him and all the other lusts I felt deep inside myself. His eyes looked back at me, and he smiled our ancient smile and said simply "Hal."

I reached out a hand to shake his, as we used to do when we met. It was a private joke – two people who'd shared so much and been through so much together, reduced to polite strangers by society. He ignored my hand, understandably, and pulled me into a hug.

It was better than my dream. The places we fitted, the places we didn't fit, all faded into insignificance against _him holding me and me holding him_ and it was like the old days, but better. He smiled against my shoulder, then drew back from the hug.

"You've been avoiding me, for half a century. And so I thought that I'd move on, and get on with being a solicitor and being human. I hear you're dry now, though? How's that going? You were never any good at resisting… temptations." He carefully (too carefully) stroked my face with one long finger, and then carried on – " And then I hear you terrified some poor local with theatrics! I, er, disposed of _that_ little problem for you, although why you'd want to feed from him, I have no idea."

I swallowed, and something reckless inside me reared its head. I touched his face, in the same place he'd touched mine, mapping out his features like a well-known route. He caught my hand before I could touch his chin, and carried on talking.

"Concentrate, _Lord_. The Old Ones are coming. I'm embroiled with them, for now at least." He dropped his hand, but kept holding mine. Concentrate? How was I supposed to concentrate so near to him? He leant forwards, nearer and nearer, until we were sharing breaths. He smelled of lust and blood and dear God, of _Cutler_ –

I pulled back. Didn't want to go down that route again; I wasn't that person anymore.

He smiled then. "I suppose you're too… pure-" he sneered the word –" to want to spend any time with me, for anything?" His voice was cool, mocking, but his eyes betrayed his feelings.

I leant forwards, the reckless beast roaring inside my chest, and pushed my fingers into his hair (longer than it used to be; I preferred it this way). He grabbed my lapels and kissed me, and I couldn't think about the customers that were surely arriving soon, or the way he was screwing up my shirt, because his lips were on mine and oh God, how I'd missed him-

He pulled away, and said "Haven't you got work to do? The dog will be missing you." His face changed slightly as he looked over my shoulder, and without a backwards glance, he left.

Like last time, I watched him go. My body was burning with blood lust and real lust, and I wanted nothing more than to run after him – but I wouldn't ruffle my composure for anything, not even him. He'd already done that, anyway. Him and his damned lips.

Once he had vanished around the corner, I turned to see Tom walking towards me. He looked at me, and said "Annie told me to find you, we've got work. Who was that? He looks familiar, do we know him?" We crossed the road together, and it was only when we got into the kitchen that I remembered I had to reply.

"That was nobody," I said, even as the words tasted wrong in my mouth. I could still taste him, illicit and familiar, on my tongue.


	7. Thief

The day dragged. Tom was quiet, and the chippy was busy, which meant that we didn't talk much. I stayed in the kitchen, in case the slight stubble-rash I used to get from kissing Cutler appeared. It probably did; I didn't mention him, but every time I remembered how hungrily he'd kissed me – and what those kisses usually meant – I talked to Tom. Mainly in an attempt to focus on the work, but the conversations were stilted.

"Hal?" Tom poked his head round the door of the kitchen, where I was mopping the floor. The radio was playing, and I didn't hear him come in – but suddenly he was there, standing in front of me. "Stop singing for a minute, you'll put the customers off their food!" He paused, waiting for me to laugh hysterically. I raised my eyebrows slightly at him, and his face fell.

"Do you want me to serve for a while? I don't mind; it's only fair that we both do our share, and I've done all of the jobs you gave me." Tom perked up, and took the mop out of my hand, then started to mop as if there were no tomorrow. He'd obviously had his fair share of humanity today.

The lunchtime rush was almost over. A few students had been in, and stayed several hours, whilst hiding from the sixth-form college they'd absconded from. They left ketchup faces drawn on the tables, and some notes about amoebas. A widower had come in, and started crying because he had never done so without his late wife. This was humanity, in all its glory – the lazy, the vandals, the lonely.

I was wiping up the last wink of ketchup when the door swung open. The café was now empty, apart from Tom (in the kitchen), and I. Turning to greet the customer (as Tom had told me to do, without making them think I was on day release…), I forced a smile onto my face and opened my mouth to speak.

It was Cutler; I didn't even have a chance to speak, let alone close my mouth, before he was kissing me again. There was none of the tentativeness there used to be; back when he was _human_, and he'd walk into my cell full of bravado. Once the doors had been shut, and the officer had left, we'd fall on each other as if we were oxygen, as if we were lifelines. Then, the mask would fracture, and I was the only one who ever saw that part of him – he'd kiss me gently, as if afraid of leaving a mark on my long-dead lips.

Once I'd turned him, though, he'd kiss me harder. He was a harder person, learning to kill, leaving his family, learning to _manage his condition_, as he put it. I managed it better than he did even then; I could control the spaces in-between feeds, although I chose not to.

Now, he kissed me fiercely, fingers knotted in my hair. His mouth curved into a smile against mine, and I moved my hands, from where they'd been hanging loose with surprise at my sides, to his shoulders. I pushed gently, and now I was in control, the way it should be. He moved backwards slowly, mouth still moving furiously, until he found the wall, and leant against it. I leant over him, and bit his lip; I heard a moan and realised it was my own.

We were not kissing with the gentle, cautious movements of men who still pretended to be interested in women; we were kissing with the desperation of (on my part) over half a century of abstinence. Our teeth scraped together, grating; he bit my lip until it hurt, and I clenched my fists in his shirt, ruining his careful ironing.

For once, I didn't even care.

I grabbed him by the lapels, and, keeping my lips firmly on his, manoeuvred us out of the door. He caught the disinfectant spray I'd been using earlier, with his hand; it fell and split onto the floor. The growing puddle of _mess_ should have bothered me, but I didn't give a damn. I had Cutler, exactly where he should be, and nothing would compare to that.

After what seemed like an age, we were outside. The sun was bright; too bright for him, who was after all so young – but then I should know, for I created him. I liked that – my creation. I moulded him, changed him into what he is today, and now he was here again, mine. He always had been mine, right from the moment he walked into my cell, decades ago.

I remembered then the _feeling_ as I bit into his neck for the first time, and oh God, the rush of his sweet blood over my bare skin. His barely registered fear, before he accepted it because "It's you, and I trust you"; how he moaned with pleasure when I touched his skin, slippery with both our blood.

He took control, pushing us both into the shade of the alleyway. He spoke then, murmuring against my lips "Why did it take you so long to recognise me? Have you got… others? That dog in the café – has he taken my place by your side?"

I laughed, a gentle snicker of amusement; his jealously was always just a show, for he knew – he _must know – _that just as he was mine, I was his. "Don't be ridiculous, Nick. You know that would never be true. And… I'd forgotten. When I went clean, I tried to bury the old emotions and lusts I used to feel, because I used to equate blood with sex, and with you. I still do, but now, I abstain from anything that might lead to temptation." I paused, lips curving into a smile. "I can resist everything except temptation".

It was his turn to laugh then. "You always were an Oscar Wilde fan, then? I thought you didn't care for his work. Not boring enough for you?"

"Says the solicitor!" My laugh mingled with his, and my body rejoiced at the sound. "You're still practicing then? How does that work? Does anybody know that you're a vampire? Good God, I sound like Annie…" He looked at me, then leaned forwards to close the spaces between us.

We instantly moulded to the other's body; he let out a sigh of satisfaction, which turned into a moan as I kissed him, harder than I'd ever kissed him before. I bit on his lip, and he raked his fingers across my back. My hands roamed over his back, slipping under his shirt, and then settled with my thumbs through the belt-loops of his trousers. He sighed against my lips, and moved his hands inside my shirt. I pulled away then; I couldn't let myself lose control like that, and especially not with Cutler. He leaned forwards again until I could feel his breath on my face. Each time I breathed out, his eyelashes fluttered slightly, but as he tried once more to kiss me, (somehow) I pushed him away.

He sighed then, and began talking. "I suppose you want me to answer your question?" He stopped, and looked at me. I nodded once, briskly, Lord once more. "I work as a solicitor because it's helpful. As it always has been. Presumably, you work here because you need the money, not for the (rather fetching) aprons they give you? No, don't blush. It suits you too much, and we don't want that. Not if you're going to keep quoting at me."

I floundered. He was _Cutler_; how could I go back to selling chips and mopping floors? He was everything, or used to be. What he was now, apart from memories of long ago, I wasn't sure.

"Come to my office tomorrow. Early in the morning. We need to… talk." He smiled at me, but it was almost a leer. I didn't mind.

"Is that a euphemism?" I asked lightly, not wanting to display my _desperation_ that it was.

He snorted. "Mind out of the gutter, Lord. No, this is about the other business. Although, if we're done early, we could… reminisce, I suppose. " He kissed me once, sweetly - no grating of teeth or pulling of hair, no passion – and I turned to go. I made him, I created him in all his perfection! I should be the one leaving! He'd noticed, because he said simply "I see you've overcome your chivalry, thank God. I missed your skin."

I walked away as if in a trance. His office. Okay. I knew where that was now (he'd written it on a piece of paper, which had been shoved in my pocket at some point), and I could do that. Just a catch-up between some old friends – people do that all the time.

I walked back into the café. Nobody had noticed I'd been gone, and the only tell-tale sign of what had happened was the pool of disinfectant on the floor. I wiped it up, and sat down to stop my knees feeling weak.

He missed my skin.


	8. Droplets

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Befuddled by him, when I got back to the house I simply sat on my bed. My routines were forgotten, and even Antiques Roadshow failed to get me as interested in an old vase, as I was in an old, bad vampire.

He was my old, bad vampire; I supposed that most of the responsibilities lay with me there. I had made him bad – at the time, I saw it as _freeing_ him from the restraints of his human life. There was also a neat sort of logic, which appealed to me, about making him drink his wife's blood. Of course, I could claim that it was just a scientific experiment – and once he'd come to terms with what he was, and what he could become, he came to me with a ferocity and fervour I had never seen before. I'll admit, he attracted me from the moment I saw him, nervous and so horribly young, in that cell. His blood… It was sublime. The gallons of blood I have drunk, from people from all walks of life – young, old, handsome, pretty, poor, rich – not even the blood of those who gorged on caviar and champagne compared to his.

Once I'd tasted Cutler's blood, I couldn't stop. He screamed at first, but then I subdued his cries with the weight of my body, and my mouth on his, until his moans of pain became groans of pleasure. And once he joined me fully in our new life together, we roamed across our private kingdom, taking its citizens for our own. Girls, boys, men, women – they were just playthings to us. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, but he wanted only their hot, wet blood; after a while, it became somewhat of a problem. He couldn't be trusted; we'd agree to share a kill and then he'd drain the body dry, or he'd attack someone indiscriminately (or more so than normal). So, we had to re-think.

Well, I had to re-think. Sick of the dogfights, and drawn to the better life that Leo promised me, I left with him. I had to fight my way out; Leo was our prize fighter, but we made it. We escaped. And every day for half a century, I'd build up my spiral of dominoes, and with the clink of each tile, I'd think of Cutler, and how I'd left him. Or I'd line up the books on my shelf, and remember how I'd plot a neat line of kisses down his pale stomach, or I'd be outside in a certain light and remember the drizzle of the day I killed his wife and made him drink her blood. Everything I did reminded me of him, and in a way, everything I did was an attempt to atone for what I'd done.

Now that he was back, however tentatively, in my life, I had a whole new set of routines. Namely, stop Annie or Tom finding out about him. Presumably, because of Alex (damn that girl!) they thought that I was into women. (Adam, the cocky little shit, would probably have made some sort of derogatory joke just then… Some people never learn!) I was into women, in that I enjoyed their company before sinking my fangs into their necks and draining them, but with such an ease that I wouldn't even crease my shirt.

Not that I did that any more.

The phone that I'd forgotten about, placed in the pocket of my jacket, beeped once. I got it out, and opened the message. It was from _him_; "You'd better be there tomorrow. You owe me an apology, and I owe you some blood." I found the crumpled card which he'd shoved into my pocket earlier, and was just putting them together in my jacket when Tom walked in.

"You alright? You've been acting funny since we were at the chippy. You're 'sposed to be doing press-ups now, what's happened? New routine?" He paused. "Maybe you've got over the routine nonse – thing."

I pinched the bridge of my nose with my index finger and thumb, and sighed laboriously. "I'm fine. Today was…" I struggled to find a word to describe _earlier_ without using "perfect". "Today was hard."

I paused, and thought about my word choice. Smooth, well done. Only Cutler and I would know, anyway. Tom was in the kitchen, wasn't he? Oh God, what if he _saw_? I reached into my pocket and found the ever-present domino, the one which had started this whole damn thing off. Okay.

"Were that college lot dicking around? I put it to you, that as service industry workers, we speak to their headmaster. Well, it might be a headmaster, or a lady. So anyway, we talk to them and get the students to have a policy or something, to stop them from – "His voice dwindled to silence; he'd lost some of his debating confidence since Allison left.

"Yeah. Yes, it was them. They spilt ketchup. And disinfectant, on the floor. I had to wipe it up." Dear God, I sounded like an idiot even to myself. Hopefully, Tom would be trusting enough to believe it.

"Oh okay, well. Must dash, it's my turn to look after Eve." He bounded upstairs, full of enthusiasm as ever.

That night, I didn't sleep. Or if I did, I just relived memories - his skin, his hair. The way his hair grew in a spiral on the back of his head, and the way It stuck up in the mornings. How when we slept, I'd curve around his back, holding him to my chest. His skin in the early evening light, and how he looked just after he'd killed, the way he'd breathe faster and deeper. How the light hairs on his legs stuck up slightly through the streaks of blood. How many sheets we'd ruin, ripping them and tearing them as we lost ourselves in each other.

I always found my way back though, because he was my own compass. His blood, his voice, his _scent_, pulled me to him, always.

In the morning, I pulled Tom aside. "I know Annie's been working really hard with the baby and all, so I was thinking. We should get her some sort of appreciative present – she's looking after us as well, remember?"

He nodded, then started to speak. "I could get something from the Cancer Research shop –"

"I'll get it. I really want to get something special, so I'm taking the day off work, and dedicating a whole day to it. You mustn't tell her though – in fact, just forget about it. We don't want to… ruin the surprise." My voice dipped lower. "Alright?"

He nodded again. "Yup, sounds great! Mum's the word!"

I left the house before he could comment on the unfairness of him having to work, and went straight to the address on the card. Once outside – it was only a short walk away into town – I pulled it out my pocket and traced the neat, yet hurriedly written, script. He owed me blood. Okay, I could do this. I could. I managed to resist the blood of that journalist he killed (oh, he had heard so many of my stories! He was probably in most of the more _important_ ones), so I could resist this. Besides, I had my routines.

Although I neglected them yesterday.

Forcing my mind away, I went in. His office was in a large, spacious hall, with high ceilings. It wasn't showy, but it was understated glamorous. That, after all, was him defined – and _oh God_ there he was, sitting at a desk the size of the king-sized bed we used to share. Dear God, he'd moved up in the world.

But then everything else was driven from my mind – even him – by the crystal decanter on the desk. Two thin-stemmed glasses stood next to it, one full. In one smooth move, he took the glass lid off the decanter, the light casting rainbow shadows over my vision, and the smell hit me. I reached out a trembling hand to take the proffered glass, and he poured the blood in. I shivered with _lust_.

And then everything was red.


	9. Momentum

Lunging forwards, knocking the glass with my hand, I spilled the blood all over myself, and all over his crisp yellow (_yellow?_) shirt, without having taken a single sip. Leo would be proud. He swore under his breath. In one smooth move, he took the empty glass off me, and pulled me into a hug.

"What was that you were saying about temptation? You seem to be resisting it uncommonly well," he murmured against my neck. I was shaking with bloodlust, and shaking with the effort of containing myself – and _oh God_ the blood was all over me. I could smell it – a truly unmistakable smell of power and heat and taste and lust – and it was so close. So tempting; but he was wrapped around me and I couldn't, or didn't want to, get to the droplets that were sinking into the carpet.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling back to look at me. His eyes were fixed on mine with a strange look, a determined and yet almost joyful stare. "I know how hard it must have been for you – although then, I suppose you're used to making _difficult _decisions? Like when you killed my wife, made me drink her blood, turned me into an addict and a murderer, and then ran away with a werewolf? Was that a difficult decision, or did it come easily to you? I pretended not to know you when we met again, just to see if you would beg for forgiveness – as you should – but then you just treated me like I was some _kid_ – and I bloody hero-worshipped you! I still do! "

I stopped his mouth with mine, a swift but strong kiss on the corner of his lip. He twisted his head away furiously. "You can't do that. Not after what you did to me, to her, to the other thousands of bloody people you made me kill! I was happy, I was fine, until I met you, and then you walk in here and think you can just kiss me and –" He paused. "How did you get in here? I didn't invite you in."

"You did, in the text. I suppose it works with words too; and I've been here before as well – I dreamt about it." I spoke quickly, spitting out the words. "I was wrong. I admit that. But you went off the rails! You were the drunk who never buys the round; you were the addict who never pays the dealer! I had to leave. For you. And yes, it was… beneficial to me as well, the time I left. I've been clean for half a century – or I was until the other day." My voice turned into a growl as I remembered the feeling of the blood in my throat, on my lips, on my tongue, and washing over my teeth - and the horror when I had realised which person's blood I was drinking.

This time it was he who pulled my face onto his, and he who kissed me. I tried to pull back, to carry on talking about _what happens when an Old One falls off the wagon_, but his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me to him. The blood that had soaked into his shirt (probably ruining it) smelt like forbidden things, and it was all I could do to stop myself from licking at his shirt –

There was a sudden noise from the cupboard, as if someone had fallen over. I was instantly alert, and stood frozen. Cutler (Nick was still too casual for he and I) stalked over to the door, and pulled it open with a triumphant gesture. A woman, cowed by terror, was murmuring what sounded like the Lord's Prayer to herself. Clutching the plain cross around her neck, her voice rose, but the words were incomprehensible. The smell of her fear hit me then, and I felt my fangs protrude. This was what I had been after, not _dead_ blood, too far from the living vessel, but fresh blood, hot and wet, flowing from a dozen puncture wounds and coating both our bodies in a sheen of sweat and gore -

Cutler turned, unable to look at the cross. I had forgotten how young he was; crosses were not a problem for me, not any more. He passed a hand over his forehead as if in pain, and shakily sat behind his desk, the chair complaining as he fell into it.

I had no such qualms, and lunged for her throat.

My teeth, already slick with Cutler's blood, slid into her neck. The veins and arteries, even now pumping, racing, to try to drive her away, fell like ribbons from her neck. Dear _God_, this was what I had been missing! The smell, the scent of the blood, drew Cutler to us; he carefully (why always so careful, that boy?) dissected her heart with his teeth, and then as we were lost in the bloodlust, the woman lay forgotten.

I pulled at his already-ruined shirt, the yellow now tie-dyed with borrowed blood, and it ripped as I tried to undo the buttons. Such a stupid invention, buttons – and _oh_ his hands were under my shirt and his skin was on my skin; we were kissing as if we needed it like humans need reality television. The blood of the woman, mingling with our sweat as we tore at each other's clothes (well, I tore his off, and removed mine carefully), created a fine red sheen on his skin. I looked at him then, in the early morning light of his office window, covered in blood and hair messed up – and had never seen anything more beautiful. His eyes were darkened with passion and lust, and they were the only place I saw my own reflection anymore, and his skin, his smooth chest and long legs and _scent_ were perfect. As he realised I was looking, a faint blush would have risen on his cheeks, were he not dead.

We fitted together like two puzzle pieces, engaged in one of the oldest of dances. It was almost painful how hard he pulled on my hair, or bit my skin – but because it was _Cutler_, it didn't hurt at all. And I'm sure he would have groaned in pain when I bit the soft, sensitive skin at the base of his stomach, but it was me. I lined up kisses down his back like dominoes, and he licked trails in the cooling blood that covered us. We hit oblivion at much the same time, with a practiced ease, and I shook with the power of it.

This was why I had made him, for _this,_ because even as he stood, fragile and tired, in the cell where we met, his reputation as "one of _those_" had reached my ears, and he was very much my type. So I took him, broke him, rebuilt him to fit me. And I took him now as well, just to reiterate to him who he belonged to. He still fitted, of course.

I was a manipulative, cruel bastard back then, and I sighed. He heard me, and detached his arms from the sprawl of bloody limbs ruining his carpet to stroke my face gently. We were both still breathing hard, although we were calm now, enjoying the aftermath. Presumably he saw what I was thinking about in my eyes, because he stood up, and I followed him.

Bugger. The blood had obviously affected me; the world was tilting, and walking was like trying to ice-skate on marbles. Okay. I glanced at the clock on the desk, but couldn't read the numbers, and as I walked (swayed) closer to the desk, I tripped over the dead woman.

He caught me before I could fall, then started redressing me. What? How could he be so gloriously free and I was constrained by clothes and material and- then he spoke. "I'll deal with it. You need to sleep it off; when you're not used to it, it'll do this for a while. Ease your way back in next time! And put your shoes on, for God's sake." His words were clinical, sensible, but all I could think of was the feeling of his strong arms supporting me whilst his office looped around me, and _safety_ and him. I kissed him again, and my fingers fumbled for him – but he turned away, then sighed and bent to do up my laces (tricky things to do, you know. Too many loops. And oh, he was bending down, oh God – but he stood up again with a horrible efficiency.

"Hal. I asked you here to talk, not to fuck. I – We need to talk about the Old Ones. They're here, they're in bloody Barry, and you're acting like a pre-pubescent teenage girl with a crush on some effeminate boy singer. Honestly, I had such hopes for you." He did up his belt, and threw me a clean shirt from his cupboard, and then put it on me because well, too many buttons. My skin was clean now (how had he done that? I didn't remember him doing that), but all the while the dead woman's eyes stared emptily at me, like the huge salmon in the fish markets I used to frequent, stalking the stupid fools who crawled there. "Go home, Hal."

The cruelty of his words cut me like a knife – my words, for I had used them once on him. I staggered, and propelled myself out of the office, muttering about Old Ones and love and bodies. He watched me go, and tried to steady me with a hand on his arm as I slid down the doorstep (why are doorsteps so tricky to manage? They need banisters), but I shook him off with a growl.

I walked (fell) home, and lurched up the stairs like a drunken sailor. Put him in the longboat.


	10. Futility

I felt it the moment they arrived. My blood – probably mostly Snow's blood – sang for them, and the blood of humanity called to me even more than normal. I fed when and where I wanted; the people I drank from simply blended into one another, one long screaming face. They all went the same way – begging and pleading. I had never begged in my life, and it sickened me, how respectable people (bankers, priests, even some back-benchers) could so easily be changed into simply a collection of arteries, muscles and blood – no personalities, just self-pity.

I stalked the whole of humanity (limiting myself to the Barry area, of course), and gorged myself. Their blood flowed quickly, and it was rich with sugar, and the fat made their hearts glisten with grease, and their necks tore easily under my teeth. The presence of the Old Ones, my equals, made me rampage with the simple need to strengthen myself for them. I knew then, that if they asked me, my blood would scream until I agreed to join them, for my blood was once their blood.

Tom was worried about me, I knew. He asked me occasionally about what I was up to, since I didn't bother showing up for work much. The blood hadn't been affecting me that much, although that might have been to do with the fact that I was staying away from Cutler, and all the temptations he offered. It had been a week since I'd last put my apron on, when he collared me as I was leaving the house.

"What's going on? You're drinking again, aren't you? I can smell it on you – you stink of it. Hal. Look at me!" He grabbed my arm, dragging me around to face him. I pushed his hand off, and then continued out the door. He followed.

"The Old Ones are coming, and we need to fight them. You need to fight them, for all of us. For Eve's sake." His voice rose uncertainly, then settled as he found his rhythm. "I know you don't want to go near them in case they kill you for running away, or something –"

"I'm not scared of them. I'm a ruthless killer, more ruthless than most of them ever were. I can deal with it. I don't need you, or Annie, or Cutler, or anybody-" I froze. I'd said his name. _His_ name. Would Tom pick up on it? A stranger's name, in the middle of my conversation? But then, they knew each other. I smelt Cutler on him that evening I drank blood again for the first time, and I knew that _his_ hands had touched Tom's tie. I was ready to rip Tom's face off when I smelt him, but then I remembered – softly, softly. Massacre monkey. So I hid my anger and pain behind another mask.

They knew each other – but how?

My brain leapt to the answer, but I couldn't believe it. Tom was the werewolf that Cutler had been manipulating? He was the one who uploaded the video, he was the one who frightened the coroner (and killed her too, therefore). And he was the one who'd been lying to my friend (my best friend) for God knew how long –

His surprised voice cut through my thoughts, but I was too busy deciding what to _do_ that I only stared at him blankly. He repeated what he'd said. "How do you know Cutler?" His voice was almost hurt, the child wondering why the adults had sent him to bed, and his eyebrows swooped to darken his eyes.

"I knew him a long time ago." I paused, and let the silence stretch. That would do; that's all Tom needed to know. Not the myriad ways and places and times in which I had _known_ Cutler, not how we were connected by more than blood, by more than lust, but by something else which neither of us had said aloud. Not how he kept me together by ripping me apart. Certainly now what we'd been up to recently. I doubted that Tom understood about the birds and the bees (if Allison was anything to go by, at least) – so _that_ would be a giant leap too far.

He nodded once, waiting for the obvious question – "_How do you know him, Tom?_". But I knew the answer already, and I needed to talk to Cutler, before this escalated. The existence of werewolves and vampires was about to be revealed, and by him, in some desperate attempt to please the Old Ones. (All of them; presumably pleasing one was not enough, and he certainly couldn't please them as he could please me). This was my fault, of course – I had moulded him into this glory-seeker, this history maker, and then left.

I pivoted, with a grace that I had picked up from watching Cutler almost _dance_ to our victims, and opened the front door. "You can't go!" Tom's voice burst from behind me.

"I can't not go, can I?" I said mildly, and went to his office.

I speeded up the stairs and into his room, and slammed my hands down on the desk. "What are you planning with Tom? You can't use him. Any werewolf but him, please. It would tear our home apart." I paused, breathing too quickly. Damn him, he always had this effect on me. He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching in a manner I knew all too well, for he had picked it up from me. That was the smile I would use before I sunk my teeth into the neck of a young girl, or before I dragged him around the corner and forced his lips onto mine, or before I snapped the spine of an irritating boy that grew infatuated with him. I suppose I was the infatuated one now.

He extended his hand to the glass on his desk. "Freshly decanted. It's more… close to life, since you prefer it that way." I ignored this with every fibre in my body, but I could almost taste it already-

"Why Tom?" I fixed my eyes on his, and watched his pupils dilate. That meant something, but the blood was all I could think of. He reached into his desk and pulled out a knife, and before I could protest, he had sliced it across his palm. The smell hit me, and I swayed. Tom was forgotten, the Old Ones were forgotten, because this was what I needed. He was what I needed.


	11. Hunger

I twisted towards his hand, my entire being focused on him, and used my tongue to catch the blood that was dripping towards the floor already. The taste exploded inside me, filling me and strengthening me and completing me – it was wrong, it wasn't human enough but it would _do_ until I could find someone else. I swallowed hard, more from anticipation than anything else, and, grasping his forearm in my hands, dragged the bloody cut to my lips. My teeth curved against his skin, and I drank from him, knowing only the sweet oblivion, relishing the feel of his body giving way beneath my mouth, and bent my neck over his hand. The tendons flexed as I drank, and I looked up at his face. He wasn't looking at me, but at a spot above my head; his eyes were blank, and he looked bored.

He pulled away, forcing my head away from him. My vision swam with desire, and I dipped my head to try to continue. He laughed slightly, in the old way that he'd laugh before revealing his nature to a victim, and held me away from him at arms' length, resisting my struggles silently. How unfair of him.

"Hal, you used to say I was the one with the problem. What was it you called me, the drunk who never bought the round? I forget,but look at you, the great Lord Hal, scrabbling for blood from someone you created out of your own arrogance," He curled his lip, mocking me. How dare he? It wasn't I who sliced my hand open – he _knew _how hard it was to resist for me, especially him! His eyes flickered over me as if appraising. "The Old Ones will be… disappointed, I'm sure. They're here, you know." He smiled, a maniacal grin. "Well, you'd know that, being one of them. Can you feel it? The lure?" He moved closer to me, leaning towards me, breath warm on my face and mouth slightly open. Like a reptile, his eyes stayed fixed on me, and his tongue shot out and moistened his lips, parting them slightly Damn him, he was playing with me.

I growled slightly, an animal sound. "You're planning to reveal _Tom_ to the world? Why him?" There was a pause. He drew back slightly, thinking. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I attempted to breathe deeply – tricky with the perfume of his blood scenting the air. My entire body tightened.

Suddenly he was back in front of me, and he spoke. "I needed someone gullible, who would trust me. I could use his grief over the death of his father, as well, so he was perfect, really. Why does it matter to you? You, who would organise fights with the hounds for money, you who would murder without a second thought? You, who could make me drink the blood of my _wife_ -" He paused in a visible attempt to calm down. I reached out, and put my hand on his shoulder in a ridiculous show of friendship, of love, of something. He threw it off, and pushed against my chest with both arms.

I staggered and fell against the wall. He was fighting back. This was unusual; I was the one who would do any fighting, and he would simply comply. "Why Tom?" I repeated, my voice louder this time. I stood, and walked over to him. "Why my best friend? My only friend, now that Annie only cares about that bloody baby?"

He grinned wickedly. "I thought you liked Eve. I like her; she's not bad for a human baby. No, I picked Tom because he was perfect. Don't you get it? Don't you see? He transforms, kills a few humans, gets his face on the Internet. Vampires protect humanity from the horror of the beast, and I impress the Old Ones, because they have humanity handed to them on a plate, worshipping them. You can go straight back to the top, and the werewolves will stop being a problem." His grin widened, and his eyes burned into me; he looked like a madman already, teeth bared.

"And you sit there, I suppose, waiting for Mr. Snow to just hand control over to you? I know him, Cutler." His eyes flickered when I mentioned his name, but he leant closer."He will never give you anything. You're too _young_-" My mind was whirling. His plan used Tom?

"I thought you'd approve. Don't you want to be Lord Hal again? You can be." He had come closer, so close that we could share breaths. So close that I only had to lean forwards and I could be pressing my lips against his. "We could take control, you and I," he breathed. "And we could be where we belong, history makers, together." I felt his words against my neck, and his still-bloody palm stroked my hair. A shiver ran down my spine.

This was for me? He'd willingly destroy the werewolves, reveal our existence to humanity, and then force the remnants into slavery for easy consumption, for me? And I thought I was selfish. "You can't –"my throat closed around the words. I swallowed, noting how his eyes followed the movement of my Adam's apple. He leant forward to gently bite me where he'd been watching, and my whole body shifted in response.

"Stop!" I pulled away, angrily, and began to pace the room. Reaching into my pocket for the ever-constant domino, I paused. It wasn't there. Spinning round, I saw it flicker in the air as he caught it. "What are you doing? What do you want? I won't, I can't let Tom be hurt." He smirked then.

"Stop worrying, it's unattractive. I can't stop it now, the plan's nearly at completion. It's a full moon tonight. That pet of yours – what was her name? The bolshy one. The one you drank from. Her body's still in the basement, and presumably she's a ghost-"

I made a slight noise in my throat. He snickered. "What, you're surprised that she'd have unfinished business? She's Scottish, of course she will. Oh, I think she might blame you for her death, seeing as how it was your fault that I had to kill her." I swallowed, and could still taste his blood on my tongue.

"My fault?"

He leant closer to me, too close. "Well, I had to. You needed to see what you'd done to me when you killed my wife. It's funny," and he smiled slowly, "but I would have thought that I'd have staked you for that. I suppose sentiment plays a part in that." He leaned even closer, tantalisingly close. I could count the faint freckles on his face, and my breaths made his eyelashes flutter. Dear God, he was perfect. One tiny movement and he and I would clash once more .

"Sentiment?" My voice broke the tension, husky. He raised his eyebrows. "What, you think you can pretend you didn't know how I felt about you? See, I had always thought I was straight. Married, talking about children. But then, I met you; when you weren't ruining my life, you enriched it. I think I even _loved _you at some point. Until you ran away with that werewolf."

I froze. We had never talked about love; we didn't talk much, apart from to plan our next hunts. Our conversations took place mainly through our skin, as if by some kind of osmosis we could know each others' innermost thoughts. I had known, of course. I'd seen it in his eyes every time I kissed him, but he was too afraid to say it back, because I was in control.

And now he was fighting back, and he kissed me. Harder than he had ever done so before, and I gasped at it. His mouth was on mine, his chest was against my chest, his fingers were twisted in my hair once more-

He sliced at his neck again, and the blood ran unchecked into his collar. The glass of blood, still on his desk, fell to the floor as I pinned him down amidst the legal papers, and suddenly he was ripping at my shirt. It tore, and I let out an accidental growl. Ripping my clothes? It was I who ripped any clothing – but then his lips were on my chest, tracing a trail down the muscles of my stomach. I shivered.

He rolled, flipping us over so that he was pressing down onto my shoulders. "I like your desk," I whispered against his neck, my words muffled by blood. "It's a good size. Did you buy it with this in mind?" He snorted at that, and when he spoke, his breath warmed my stomach.

"Not everything I do is with you in mind. I thought you were dead for fifty years, remember? Or did you blot out that memory with one from your new _friend_ – he was just a friend, wasn't he? No matter how desperate you might have been, surely you wouldn't stoop to a dog?" He moved upwards along my body (and every damn movement sent lust through every cell ), until he was looking at me.

I kissed him just to shut him up, harder and deeper and longer than was strictly needed. He kissed back though, with a desperation that bled into his actions, and his fingers moved to my trousers. I slipped my braces off my shoulders, and bucked my hips to allow him to undo the buttons.

"Goddamn your predilection for fancy clothing," he almost spat against my lips. His teeth nipped my tongue, and his hands were on me and it was _right_ in a way that it hadn't been for fifty years – and then both our trousers were on the floor discarded, and he was naked, his body lean and glorious in the light. I wasn't sure when I ended and he began – surely we weren't two people, not anymore, and suddenly my world tilted and all my thoughts stopped, apart from the pure analytical notion of what he was doing.

He was sweating now – we both were, and I could have wept at his beauty. He was mine, truly mine, and I was his. "We're legal now," he suddenly said, forcing the words out from behind what looked like a truly impressive self-control. I was too far gone to reply; I could only manage a strangled moan, and to breathe out his name because _dear God his fingers and his mouth and his glorious body_ and I was rattling my bones with the strength of this. I couldn't breathe; he was in much the same state as I was, but as I calmed, I managed to mumble- "As if laws ever stopped us."

My phone started to ring.


	12. Plot

We twisted as one at my ringtone, a tangle of limbs and legal papers, and he stretched over to the floor. I leaned too, grabbing my trousers by the waistband and pulling them towards me. Where was it? The pockets were empty, apart from a domino; it fell out as I smoothed out the legs, and he smirked at that from where he was twisted to the floor. The blood still in my system made me slower, but it wasn't enough. Nothing compared to the smell and the taste of blood, or the sound of my fangs slicing, or the acid burn as I swallowed. But it was alright, as a stop-gap. I needed more. Presumably, when an Old One fell off the wagon, he did it properly.

Who was phoning me? Nobody had phoned me, apart from Cutler.

"This is why you preferred letters, I suppose? Or was it telegrams?" He broke the tune playing, his eyes moving towards mine, and I saw then that he was holding the phone, still ringing. "Whichever antiquated method you liked, I'm glad you saw sense. This is far more practical." He pressed a button on the phone, and the ringing stopped. "Although – the ringtone needs some work. Hello?" He turned away from me slightly. "Yes, his phone – well, I think he stole it. Can I take a message? Who is it?"

The phone switched to loudspeaker, and the speaker was silent, pausing until Cutler turned to me with a somewhat desperate expression. Lost for words? That was new. He sighed, and pushed the phone towards me. It was Tom, according to the name on the screen. "Hal? Is that you? Why was _he _answering your phone? You said you knew him from a while ago. When did you meet him again?" He was speaking quickly, too quickly. I checked the clock on the wall; he'd be at work.

I didn't speak, thinking hard. So, Tom knew that Cutler and I knew each other. He was also a factor in Cutler's plan to expose the supernatural to humanity, which he knew about, presumably. He knew that I was drinking blood again. But I told him that Cutler and I were friends, and the fact that he and I were obviously together, and the fact that he had access to my phone suggested… Right. Fantastic, just what we need as the Old Ones come to town – a good old-fashioned sexual identity crisis. Well, better now than then I suppose – we were "legal" as Cutler put it, now.

But then, we weren't… _boyfriends_, or even friends, he and I. We had a past, yes, but the past was hurried, rushed, because there was the risk of being caught; men like us were acting illegally every time we touched. It was different now – we were legal indeed (had been since 1967 apparently, and he'd know) but even though it's no longer a crime to find other men attractive, people still talk. I sank to the floor, Cutler looking frantically at me. He grabbed the phone from my outstretched hand and hung up quickly, without speaking.

"What the hell was that? Why didn't you say something?" He knelt down to my level, and raised my head in his still-bloody hand. He looked a strange mix of post-coital satisfaction, and anger. "You do know, don' t you, that he knows where my office is?" I looked up then. Tom couldn't come here.

"What?" Then it hit me. "Of course, he's the werewolf you're using. Great. So, he knows I'm with you, and the only place he'd think to come, to find you (as he wants to find me), is here." My mouth twisted in anger, and I stood up, away from his skin. "You're so bloody smug the whole time! Killing a few humans? Planning the exposure of our entire world? Making me fall off the wagon spectacularly, and then continue to use me as some sort of toy? It's really not a problem to you, is it? Nobody else matters, apart from Nick fucking Cutler." I was breathing heavily now, and the long-forgotten rage was building up in me. The rage that would make me murder and rape and pillage.

He smirked, but his eyes were sad. "Nick? That takes me back. And swearing? My, my, you disappoint me." Damn him. Damn him and his smart words, how dare he?

"You're just a kid. Why are you trying to play with people – why the Old Ones? I knew you were ambitious (suppose that's my fault, isn't it?), but the Old Ones? Have some perspective. I know you're clever, but this is idiotic. They won't listen to you." I paused, and he took the chance to cut in.

"Oh, run back to your werewolf! The Old Ones don't need you anymore, so I don't think they'd care about your opinion." I snorted at that. Fergus called me Lord Hal until the moment I staked him – they wanted me back. "I'm going to hand them the world on a silver platter. You can share the glory if you want to. You can go back to the top, with me."

The top. That meant power, and freedom, and blood. I saw myself at the right hand of Mr. Snow, where I belonged. Cutler and I – they tolerated our sordid relationship (of sorts) then, and presumably now we'd be welcomed, for some of them were surprisingly liberal. I could have blood from wherever I wanted. I could be rich again, and nobody would disturb me to make me practice piano with a baby, or make me serve chips to the scum of the earth.

Then, as I retrieved my clothes and started getting dressed (Tom was on his way, and presumably he'd rather we were dressed and decent), I saw a small stain of milk. Eve. Oh, God. She was the War Child; she could destroy the vampires. I couldn't get back to the top if she lived, but I couldn't kill her. That would destroy Annie and Tom. I pictured Tom's face at my betrayal; eyes almost hidden under his eyebrows, but glistening with stubborn tears. He'd probably stake me himself, if I got anywhere near the baby. But I had the burn! It throbbed painfully as I slipped my arm through my sleeve – I was the nemesis, surely?

But then destiny and prophecy were mind games. This was what mattered; the living facts. "No," I said firmly, turning to face him. "I can't do that. Not even for you." If I were to join him, I would regress. The cycle was nearing its end; soon, I would be a monster again, and I couldn't be like that around him. I couldn't.

He stopped, frowning slightly. "Not even for me? Not going to call me Nick this time?" He moved closer, and trailed a finger lightly across my chest. "Working out suits you far too much," and the words were gossamer-light against my face. "You see, I never promised any level of self-restraint." His hand moved upwards, gently, to cup my chin, and he looked into my eyes as if he could see my soul. Not that I had a soul, of course.

"No." The slight growl to my voice caused his eyes to widen slightly, but he stayed where he was. I turned away, buttoning my shirt. "Put your clothes on, Tom will be here. We need to think of a cover story; we can't tell him the truth. Oh, tonight is your ridiculous plan. I forgot thanks to you." I threw him his trousers and belt, and pulled my shoes on.

"Listen to me. Eve has to die. The War Child, we've got to kill her. But Tom and Annie will fight tooth and claw (well, Annie will stake us) if we try, so we need a plan. It'd be good if we could destroy ourselves at the time, and the Old Ones." He looked up then, obviously thinking I'd gone insane.

"You're crazy." His voice was quiet, but still had the mocking edge that I knew so well."Kill ourselves? I don't think you quite understand what I want. Fame, glory, power – not insignificance and death. How would we kill them all, anyway?" He looked down again, and carried on buttoning his shirt, but walked towards me. We were both fully clothed now, but he had slight smudges of blood on his hands and neck still. Gently, I brushed my lips against them, as if I could kiss them away.

From outside, the noise of someone knocking on the door made us leap apart. Cutler moved silently to the door, pulling away from me. When had he locked it? He slid the bolt across with a clatter, and Tom burst in."Hal? Mr. Cutler? Are you he-" his voice broke off when he saw both of us standing there. "Hal, you need to come in for work." I sighed, and next to me so did Cutler, but it was almost imperceptible.

"Why're you here? I thought you hadn't spoken for –"

Cutler cut in. "Decades? Half a century? Yeah, because he decided to run away with a werewolf." His voice was bitter, acerbic, and his words hurt me, almost as much as they hurt him. It was half a century ago, like he said, and he was still hurting. "You see, Tom, he uses people. He gets inside their heads, makes them friends with him, makes them respect him, look up to him, love him even – and then he'll just turn around and _dump_ them without a second thought." His face screwed into a smile, dripping with irony.

Tom shrugged slightly. "He's my mate. My best mate. C'mon, we need to go to work." He tugged slightly on my arm, but before we could go, Cutler stepped towards us and almost _shoved_ his arm off mine. "Actually, we need you to do something, Tom. Remember what we were talking about, the full moon and you destroying the Old Ones?" His voice was quiet, but forceful.

I jolted. Tom thought he was destroying the Old Ones? Why couldn't he do it? Cutler and I both wanted them gone – and once he'd transformed, he was lethal to us. The mark on my arm throbbed when I remembered it was there; his blood would kill us. He'd have to be bleeding, which would weaken him, but only a bit; he could still fight. "Nick?" I grabbed his arm, expecting him to shrug off the contact.

He turned towards me once more, eyes alive and sparkling with anger still. "Oh, I suppose you want something? Never mind that you have me alr-" My fingers tightened on his arm, and he went silent. Tom looked between us, the child left out of the adults' conversation. Cutler sighed, and looked at Tom, right into his eyes.

"I know you don't want to be a weapon, but if you do this, you won't have to be any more. You can kill the Old Ones, and there won't be any more violence or fighting." I saw suddenly, what a great lawyer Cutler would have been. It wasn't just the words he used, but the way he said them; it was because it was he who was speaking, that they sounded good. I blinked, seeing the sun for the first time. Seeing him properly. It had taken long enough.

Nodding, Tom smiled faintly. "And then I can be normal? And it'll be safe for Allison to be friends with me? Macnair always said I'd fight the vampires until I died, but you're alright, you two. And Mitchell, he was nice. You're a mate, Mr. Cutler. And Hal." He was beaming now, eyes lit up in a way that I hadn't seen since he guessed the correct value of a toast rack on Antiques Roadshow.

"Of course. And didn't Allison say she wanted to be a lawyer? Maybe I can help her out." Cutler was smiling too, but it was a genuine smile for once, not the smirk of a shark. Brilliant, more Allison. She'd want to know about Alex, I suppose, and I'd have to explain that my sometime… boyfriend had killed her. In fact, I'd probably have to tell Annie about that, and Cutler. Of course, she'd met him, and didn't like him. But I suppose all somewhat maternal figures dislike any competition for affections. She'd been back for a few days, but hadn't spoken – she was sad, and wan; she didn't talk, just held Eve. And Eve wasn't speaking Japanese any more, according to her.

Tom grinned round at me, then lightly punched me (he'd have creased my shirt, were it not already creased from Cutler's clenching fists) in the chest. Presumably he'd thought it was lightly, but Cutler snickered as I swayed. I couldn't tell Tom about all that, not yet. But I'd have to.

"Let's go." Tom raised his eyebrows slightly (in fairness, I'd snarled at him the last time he'd mentioned the café) but followed me to the door. I turned to look at Cutler, and he smiled, but then the mask slipped and his face was radiant. Why was he so happy? I'd thought of a way to benefit both of us, and Tom, but what about Eve?

His hand shot out, and my fingers closed around the domino he'd taken from my pocket. Replacing it, I also found my phone. It had a new message, but I turned it off without reading it, looking at him.

"I'll see you." His words burned with a quiet determination; not just the lacklustre commitment of a friend, but a promise to _me_, and I was certainly a hell of a good friend.


End file.
